


no choice but to dance, in a spiral of ants

by Alana



Category: Hollow Knight (Video Games)
Genre: Ficlet, Gen, canonical levels of sadness, dont forget to hug your bug, non-canonical levels of affection, the knight is doing their best
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:22:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23723035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alana/pseuds/Alana
Summary: It wasn't that they'd never touched.
Relationships: The Knight & Quirrel (Hollow Knight)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 154





	no choice but to dance, in a spiral of ants

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WordByrd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WordByrd/gifts).



It wasn't that they'd never touched.

His little silent acquaintance, who had touched his journey over and over, who wandered the same twisting caverns as he, who had, in the end, led him to what had called him to this place-- followed him to what had called him-- it wasn't that they hadn't touched. Benches were only so big, after all, and the little bug had dozed easily, nodding off and slumping as liquid as a snail against Quirrel's side; or one of their little companions settled on Quirrel's body, lightly examining him, and they would reach up to retrieve it, motions gentle but unsentimental. And there was the time in the hot springs, plummeting out of the sky with a great splash, nearly into Quirrel's lap-- he'd been so surprised! Pleasantly, of course, Deepnest was better with company, and they had shared a companionable silence, though Quirrel wasn't quite sure his little friend had a carapace to soothe in the soul-soaked waters.

They had touched, from time to time, over the weeks of their passing acquaintance. But looking over the Blue Lake, the last mystery he'd wanted to solve solved, the last vista he'd sought out seen, the end of his journey before him... his friend had stood there with him in silence for some time, their body language giving not even the slightest hint of their thoughts and emotions. They hardly even seemed to breathe, watching the rippling water with him, and he didn't see how slow and uncertain they had been to lift their hand, to make a gesture outside the practical.

But he feels it, the tiny fingers touching the top of his head, through his scarf-- he starts, and his acquaintance pulls their hand half-back as he stares at them, hanging in the air between them.

Then, deliberately, he is patted, like a pet.

A bubble of confused amusement rises out of Quirrel's wearyness, like an ooma out of acid, and he breathes a tiny laugh, goes, "Oh?" to his acquaintance. "What are you--"

Again, he is patted, ever so lightly, and another laugh breaks from him. Does his acquaintance think him in need of comfort? Or perhaps consider him a small and silly companion, like the ones that so often follow them?

The patting continues, and Quirrel can't help but laugh, and laugh, and

at the first sob, the patting stops, and his silent companion tips their head, considers him.

"... Forgive me," he manages, and turns away, presses his hands over his mask. Why cry now? It's already all done and dusted, after all. What right has he to cry? He has only done what he was asked,

The tiny hand rests on his head again, and begins to stroke, motions deliberate, mechanical-- but all the same, it wrenches emotions and sounds from Quirrel. How silly, how stupid, that all it takes to reduce him to a sniveling, whining grub is the barest affection, and the thought only makes him cry harder. What a fool he is-- what an idiot-- thinking he had any choice or will-- when all his life, given to him or taken away, was at the bidding of this cursed and empty kingdom.

When he presses his mask to his knee, heart aching, his companion sits beside him, and leans against him, mask heavy against Quirrel's carapace. He doesn't shoo them away, and they do not leave him for a long, long while, the only sounds the rasping sobs of a tired old bug and the soft lap of water against the shore.

**Author's Note:**

> (and then the knight picked up quirrel and carried him to dirtmouth, where elderbug would take care of him, instead of leaving him alone to mope.)


End file.
